


guttering, choking, drowning

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [38]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Background Violence, M/M, Missing in Action, Pining, Shellshock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9160033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: WW1 AU. He finds the name he’s searching for in the second column, fifth row down, though the weight in his gut and the look on Lance’s face would have been enough to tell him it was there in any case.Sequel tonot in the hands of boys, but in their eyes. Written for the Avalon's Library Short Fics Fest 2017.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Background violence, mentions of off-screen character death and shellshock.
> 
> Title from Wilfred Owen's [_Dulce et Decorum Est_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/46560).

 

 

He finds the name he’s searching for in the second column, fifth row down, though the weight in his gut and the look on Lance’s face would have been enough to tell him it was there in any case. He hasn’t seen Merlin since that last push; none of them have, and it’s been three days since they first went over the top. It’s not difficult to connect the dots.

 

“This list.” Arthur taps the paper with his pen. “Is it accurate?”

 

Lancelot nods. “As near as it can be, sir,” he says. His expression is neutral; fixed. Only his eyes give away what he feels. “We have eyewitness reports for some. Others are listed as missing, until we have a better idea of what happened to them. But, sir…” His voice falters as he meets Arthur’s gaze. Both of them know what Arthur is really asking, just as they both know what the likely answer will be. “They could be fine, sir. It was a real mess out there, it’s possible some of them were only injured, or got bottled up somewhere — “

 

“But it’s not very likely, is it?” Arthur interrupts, his voice even. Missing is a damnable word; it allows for no peace, no closure at all. At any moment he might walk in. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may go.” He glances down at the list, which even in its preliminary form is longer than he would have liked. “It seems I have some letters to write.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

With a final salute, Lancelot leaves, his head bowed. Arthur exhales slowly and puts down his pen, spreading out his hands atop the desk in front of him. The fine tremors are clearly visible under the skin. Although the bombardment has been over for hours, he can still hear the distant roll of mortars in his head, and in the comparative silence of the dug-out the ticking of his father’s pocket-watch becomes as loud as a gun. He splays his fingers out as far as he can and presses them against the splintered surface of the wood in an effort to make them stop shaking, but this only seems to transfer the nervous energy to his leg, which begins to bounce up and down like that of an anxious child. He is thinking of Merlin’s laugh; of eyes that will never see the sun again; of a mouth that will never smile. With a sudden motion of his arm he sweeps everything off the desk and lets it fall. The bottle of ink hits the packed earthen floor and shatters, drenching Arthur’s books and the tips of his boots in black, and the paper he had been meant to use for writing home flutters down on top of it, soaking up the excess. Arthur covers his face with his hands. It’s over now, all of it. All that remains is for him to write to Hunith and tell her —

 

“Sir?” Gwaine’s head appears in the doorway. With a quick glance, he takes in the smashed ink bottle and the ruined books, the captain slumped against his desk. “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur answers, through gritted teeth. He knows how this must look. “An accident, that’s all.”

 

Gwaine’s expression tells him that this is about as convincing as he had expected, which is to say not at all, but in a rare show of tact the other man only shakes his head. “He’ll be all right, you know,” he says. “You know Merlin. Always underfoot, until you want him for something. He’ll turn up somewhere, sir, you’ll see.”

 

It’s pathetic, really, how much Arthur wants to believe him.

 

“No doubt you’re right,” he says, dredging up a smile from somewhere. It stretches on his face like he’s forgotten what his muscles are for. “In the meantime, here I am stuck cleaning up after myself.”

 

He nods to the mess on the floor, and Gwaine’s mouth quirks.

 

“That’s your own fault, Princess,” he says cheerfully. “No wonder Merlin’s done a runner, if you throw a tantrum every time he’s out of sight for more than a few minutes. I bet he’s enjoying his little holiday.”

 

Arthur snorts, but bites back his reply as Gwaine steps inside and kneels beside him to help pick up the broken glass. There is nothing to be done for his boots, or the books, but they’re no great loss. They have become good at this since they got to France; ignoring the things they cannot change, the death and devastation dogging at their heels. Like sharks, they must keep moving or drown.

 

When they’re finished, there’s ink on Arthur’s fingers and under his nails, mapping the little lines across his palms. Order has been restored — or what remains of it.

 

“I’ll get you some more paper,” Gwaine says, looking at the ruined sheets in his hands. “I think Perce has some somewhere in that pack of his.”

 

“No, it’s all right.” Arthur shakes his head. “Let him keep his sketchbook — I’m in no hurry.”

 

“It might take a while to get another lot in.”

 

“I know.”

 

Gwaine meets his eyes for a long moment, then nods, and wordlessly offers him a cigarette.

 

“Thanks.” Arthur takes one, then tucks a second behind his ear for good measure. It is perhaps telling that Gwaine makes no objection to this liberty, but instead lights up his own and inhales, leaning against the dug-out wall. It’s late enough that they ought to be trying to sleep; Merlin would be fussing were he here, insisting that Arthur get some rest before he starts dozing on his feet like a racehorse. But Merlin is not here, and though the corners of Arthur’s eyes feel gritty and hot, closing them seems impossible now. He sits back down at his desk and picks up the list. _Missing_. _Missing. Missing. Killed in Action. Presumed dead._

 

He wonders if it is harder to live with only the faintest hope, or none at all.


End file.
